


a rose for keith

by guineaDogs



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Character Death, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Outsider, POV Third Person Limited, Southern Gothic, a retelling of faulkner's "a rose for emily", sort of ambiguous timeline, the deaths happen off screen but the entire piece is death-focused, this could easily be a teen rating but marked as mature due to the topic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26090809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs
Summary: When Keith Kogane died, he left behind no spouse, no kin, no heir. But his death marked the end of a bygone era. The property fell into the hands of the town, and seeing little intrinsic value in a house with no electricity, and in such disrepair, it was slated for demolition.Although Keith remained a frequent topic of conversation, the decades-long curiosity was finally laid to rest along with his cheap pinewood casket under the blistering southern sun.---No one asked for a retelling of Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily" but here it is anyway.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45





	a rose for keith

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you're a sort of intangible homesick where you don't actually want to go back to where you grew up, but the landscape and the sounds of the wildlife won't leave you, and then you start thinking about the related literary genres, and although you have a billion other writing projects that are much more pressing, you feel compelled to write a retelling of your favorite Southern Gothic short story. 
> 
> But hey, it's done, it's out of my system. 
> 
> If you've read the Faulkner story, there's been some changes but you know what you're in for. If you haven't, I'm sorry. 
> 
> You can find me on twitter @ [guineaDogs](https://twitter.com/guineaDogs).

When our town learned that Keith Kogane died, it was a sweltering Sunday afternoon in late summer. The sour stench of death lingered in the air surrounding the old Kogane House, trapped in the heat and humidity, clutching everything it came in contact with in a vice grip. It was a hellish sort of heat, the sort that stifled your breath and always felt significantly worse when the cicadas chimed in with their dirge for the old recluse. 

The news spread quickly; there was no other way to spend an afternoon that hot and so unbearably humid, than to gather on porches talking to one's neighbors. It was Lance McClain who found out first. He was a boisterous old coot, who somewhere in his life, forgot that there were certain conversations that were better whispered. With his own home beside Keith’s, he’d had a one-sided feud for years over the property’s neglect, which was consistently met with silence and indifference. 

He was on his porch when he saw Keith’s hired help, a man called Ulaz, emerged from the house with a sense of urgency one typically didn’t find on such a day. He was often the only one to emerge from the house, but it was different this time, as he lacked the typical baskets and lists he took with him to catch the trolley to the business district. It was a Sunday, after all, and any store he visited on behalf of his employer was not open. 

Lance leaned against the railing of his porch, called over to him as Ulaz pushed the creaking gate open. He asked if everything was alright, to which Ulaz shook his head, and Lance soon learned what he needed to know. Seeing as he was the only one in the whole quarter with a party line, he insisted it was  _ his _ duty to inform the other inhabitants of their quaint town, was it not? It was a matter of curiosity and intrigue as much as it was respect. 

And so arrangements were made. For the first time in years, faded curtains were drawn, windows opened.

Everyone attended the funeral. Dozens upon dozens, prying mourners entered the home, piled into the dusty formal parlor to pay final respects to the man whose body was in a simple pinewood casket beneath the protection of mosquito netting, surrounded by pungent flower arrangements. 

“Surely such a casket is unbecoming,” one of the ladies whispered to her companion. There were some murmurs in agreement, some tuts, a comment or two about the long-speculated financial hardship that had befallen Keith some decades ago. Others merely absorbed themselves in everything but the casket, marveling over the derelict time capsule in which they stood, as if every item in the house were part of a curio cabinet. 

When Keith Kogane died, he left behind no spouse, no kin, no heir. But his death marked the end of a bygone era. The property fell into the hands of the town, and seeing little intrinsic value in a house with no electricity, and in such disrepair, it was slated for demolition.

Although Keith remained a frequent topic of conversation, the decades-long curiosity was finally laid to rest along with his cheap pinewood casket under the blistering southern sun.

* * *

The Kogane residence was once a thing of beauty. A two story Greek Revival, it was equipped with a temple fronted façade, a low-pitched gable roof with pediments, unadorned friezes, and cornices. It had pristinely painted columns that served as posts for the porch, and yellow pine paneling—truly, it was the picturesque standard for the architectural style that was en vogue when it was originally constructed in the 1870s as a gift for the late Mrs. Kogane, Keith’s mother. The windows were large, often with curtains drawn open to allow the daylight in.

The lawn was carefully cultivated, with magnolias and dogwoods lining the street-facing side of the property. A couple live oaks also grew in the spacious front yard, but even more could be found in the expansive rear of the property along with longleaf pine, trumpet honeysuckle, satsumas, and luscious muscadines that produced the sweetest wines year after year. It was a pleasant dwelling to walk past, to leave near. Certainly it contributed to the high property values of the quarter. 

But that was over forty years ago. Since then, the house fell further and further into decline. 

Were it not for the weekly deliveries of ice, milk, and eggs, to the servant entrance of the house, the one that opened directly to the kitchen, one would think the house abandoned. The magnolias still bloomed, but the branches of the oaks bore an overgrowth of spanish moss, the pines, and other trees on the property were filled with deadwood and broken branches. Spanish moss and kudzu fought over the fences so intensely that one could scarcely tell there were bricks and cast iron beneath it. The grasses were long, unmanaged, and home to any number of vermin that often ventured from the refuse of a lawn to neighboring properties in search of food.

There were complaints, of course, brought forth to the sheriff, the city council. Pleas for them to do  _ something _ about this blemish on their small town. Requests and official notices tacked to the front door and affixed to the fence were ignored.

It became such an issue that it roused a rabble. 

“Surely you can do something about it!”

“You want to harass an old man about his home? Take care of it yourself.” It was just overgrown vegetation; it wasn’t like the time years prior that rot surrounded the house that had everyone speculating that there were dead critters on the property that Keith or his staff failed to deal with.

“Believe me—” came the exacerbated response from a particular individual who believed everything was his business to mind. “—last time I tried, I was met with a shotgun.”

* * *

There were stories of Keith Kogane, who he was, what he did.  _ He's an odd one _ , the ladies would say as they gossiped. In a town this small, there weren't many secrets, apart from where Keith was concerned. It just wasn't  _ normal _ for someone to spend so much time alone. What could he get up to, in a place like that? They knew for a fact it was one of the only homes left that hadn't had electricity installed, and yet they could scarcely remember the last time they'd seen the curtains open. It had to be unbearable in the summer heat. How did he endure?

School children crossed the street before passing the house, lest they be on the same sidewalk the property connected to. They whispered of ghouls and ghosts, of spectres, of dark magic and warlocks who wanted nothing more than to drag them into the undoubtedly haunted house by their ankles. 

The men debated over finances. The upkeep for such a home was no laughing matter—something that Keith obviously couldn’t afford, or couldn’t care to trouble himself with—and while it was true that Old Man Kogane had a fortune of some kind, little was known regarding Keith's career, or potential lack thereof. Perhaps he was an artist, or a writer, who sent off manuscripts to some far-off place. Perhaps he was sitting upon so much wealth that he didn't do anything, that the miserly characteristics he became known for were a product of a queer, quirky personality and not that of a man who was becoming increasingly destitute.

They didn't pity him; a man couldn't pity what he didn't understand.

* * *

Perhaps Keith was always fated to live a life of isolation. 

Some people were born with that sort of rotten luck, so who could say? There were those who could not bear the weight of misfortune, and were forever changed by it. That certainly seemed to be the case here; those who were around to witness how things were when Keith was younger insisted as much. Back then, it hadn't seemed like there was anything unordinary about him. At the age of five, he'd been a cheerful child, by all accounts. 

But death and disease were one of the few things that could touch all social classes, and the Koganes were no exception. The loss of his mother seemed to affect him gravely, and in the years following, a dark cloud loomed overhead, and there was a storm brewing in his eyes. He seemed to be unable to contain it, even in polite company. 

It was a failing of his father, the town decided. He was a good man who contributed to noble charities, but at best, he must have been far too indulgent with his son. At worst, he neglected him by virtue of never remarrying. A successful businessman, such as the senior Kogane, of course adequately provided for his small family, but a man couldn't be expected to rear his own child. 

Boys needed their mothers, after all, and the lack of a nurturing mother in his life surely led to Keith's future proclivities.

If any of their neighbors actually cared beyond the inherent entertainment value in speculation, they hemmed and hawed about how it wasn't  _ actually _ their place to speak on the matter. The judgement was there, but they failed to find reason to make the effort to intervene or otherwise make their 'concerns' directly known.

* * *

The final nail in the proverbial coffin occurred when Keith was on the cusp of manhood. Yellow fever claimed his mother, and typhoid his father. Somehow he was untouched, but not unscathed. 

"He's descended into a state of madness," Iverson, the sheriff at the time, commented. It was merely days following the burial of Keith's father in the family plot, and the young man was so overcome with grief that he seemed unable to accept the reality of the present circumstances. He seemed utterly unprepared for complete independence, of existing in a time and space without his father’s guidance and oversight.

Rumors circulated. One stated that he refused to let the burial occur and had to be restrained while the coffin was carried out from the parlor. Others suggested that he sat beside the coffin all day and night, refusing even a moment's rest, looking for any sign of life. By the time his father was laid to rest, however, there was such a state of decomposition that it was clear that death had, indeed, stolen that life.

There was some sympathy for Keith at that point, of course. He wasn't the first boy to be orphaned at seventeen, but he'd taken it harder than anyone anticipated. His mourning was deeper and more extensive than what would have ever been socially required or expected of him. It was a hardship that was difficult for him to recover from, and as far as anyone knew he didn't have any close remaining familial ties. 

Still, while Keith tended to keep to himself back then, he was far from considered to be the recluse he later became. He had a staff that cared for his house and grounds, and periodically they would take on errands in town for him. Keith was a young man of few words, who always seemed perplexed when any amount of attention was directed towards him, but he was polite and once it was appropriate again, he periodically attended the social soirees to which he was invited. 

As he ventured into his twenties, the whole town held its breath, waiting in anticipation for Keith to marry. There were no shortage of available young women to court, no shortage of families who were more than willing to overlook Keith’s oddities if only their daughter could marry into. It was no secret that he was an intelligent young man, and devastatingly handsome. Wouldn’t he want an equally beautiful woman to keep his bed warm?

Many called upon him, invited him for teas and picnics, but none of the ventures were fruitful. Keith was polite and not unkind when he turned down offer after offer.

* * *

There was a resounding ‘ _ ah, that explains everything’ _ moment when Takashi Shirogane moved into town. It wasn’t often that newcomers ventured here, much less stayed for extended periods without some sort of familial tie; the original settlement began along the bayou and moved inland, but it was only accessible by an offshoot of a highway. It had little more to offer than the nighttime bellows of alligators and buzzing of an overpopulation of mosquitoes. 

And yet, he’d taken up the last vacancy at the single rooming house in town. He was a pianist, or that was he became known for through the local chatter. Hushed giggles of how long his  _ piano fingers _ were, how chiseled his jaw was, or how chivalrous his demeanor was; the ladies regaled in stories of how he helped so-and-so cross the street so the hem of her dress wasn’t sullied by muddy puddles. Among the men there was perhaps some envy; Mr. Shirogane embodied every herculean trait they vied for, but with a humble and kind demeanor that made it truly difficult to genuinely dislike him. 

Like everyone else in town, Keith had quickly shown an interest in Mr. Shirogane as well, and as eligible ladies tried to convince themselves that it was merely a budding friendship between two eligible bachelors, their hopes were crushed when Mr. Shirogane took residence at the Kogane house, even if it was under the guise of ample space and Keith’s insistence on the company.

For years, that was the arrangement. One could only guess what went on in the house; even with Mr. Shirogane residing there, Keith chose not to entertain guests often, but they both attended social events hosted by others just periodically enough that it was deemed mostly acceptable. 

But then Mr. Shirogane developed a tremor in his hands. He wasn’t old by any means, and the ailment still came as a surprise to the town. Of course, it was understood when he stopped playing piano, though it was broadly considered to be a disappointing development. His social visits lessened as his condition worsened. Merely months later, he relied on the aid of a cane. 

Perhaps Keith found a purpose in aiding Mr. Shirogane; whereas prior to Mr. Shirogane’s strange illness, their social calls varied—sometimes they attended events together, but often independently—this sudden change resulted in Keith never leaving his side in public appearances, even though he could’ve easily hired someone to take up the task.

The nature of some things never came to light, but this was what we knew without a shadow of a doubt: the last public appearance Keith ever made was a visit to the druggist on Mr. Shirogane’s behalf, where he was recommended a belladonna salve to assist with Mr. Shirgane’s pain and mobility difficulties. 

Following that day, neither man was seen publicly again.

* * *

Intrigue regarding what happened to Mr. Shirogane was as rampant over the years as was the insatiable need to know why Keith dropped all pretenses of being a respectable member of society. There were two theories that had the most credence. Either Mr. Shirogane left town, perhaps to see a physician more equipped to treat him than the local druggist, or he died. 

The latter raised more questions: did the disease that seemed to attack his muscles aim for his beating heart? Was Keith a murderer? Was he taking the initiative in isolating himself, as murderers were not welcome in polite society? Had a loss of a close  _ friend _ affected him as gravely as previous losses?

These core questions, over the decades leading up to Keith’s eventual demise, were the roots of the tales surrounding him, and his property.

* * *

By the most reliable accounts, Keith was sixty or thereabouts when he died. A fairly average age. His hair was long, unruly and completely silver, and his frame was thin. Even hours after his death was announced, his body bore a skeletal element, as if he’d gone on through the years merely existing as he waited for the afterlife. 

When we decided to inquire about the last days and moments of his life, the one man who knew, Ulaz, was nowhere to be found. It was as if, now that his tenure was complete, there was no reason to linger.

Then answer to all questions came, however, upon venturing upstairs to the room that was due west. If the curtains had ever been drawn, it would have overlooked the back of the property, with the bayou in the distance. Instead, it was dusty, and so dark that little could be seen until the threadbare curtains were pulled back.

The sunlight seeped in and finally, after decades, one mystery was solved. What desiccated remains were left of Takashi Shirogane were on the bed. A blanket covered his bones to his torso, with one arm resting atop the blanket, while the other was partially outstretched, as if he’d once held someone dear close.

Upon closer inspection, the down mattress had a long indentation, and upon the pillows beside him, were long silver hairs. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] a rose for keith by guineaDogs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26945527) by [taikodragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taikodragon/pseuds/taikodragon)




End file.
